


i dodge the blast (and apologize for collateral damage)

by shineyma



Series: a new chance at you [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 14:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3940405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma has always been given to nightmares.</p><p>She doesn’t dwell on it much. </p><p>[Jemma after--or before--the finale.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	i dodge the blast (and apologize for collateral damage)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what to say about this one. It's got spoilers for the finale--kind of? Not really? Who knows.
> 
> Title from Panic! at the Disco's _Mercenary_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma has always been given to nightmares.

She doesn’t dwell on it much. 

 

 

When she is fifteen, she begins to have a particularly disturbing reoccurring nightmare.

In it, she is being dragged across a stone floor. Ice-cold fingers are wrapped around her ankles, pulling her back towards—something. Something bad. She doesn’t know what, only that she must _not_ let it take her. She screams and scrambles for purchase, tries to dig her nails into the floor, tries to grab at something—anything—to use as leverage against the force pulling her back, but there’s nothing.

It always takes her.

She wakes feeling hollow and off-balance. It’s hours before the sensation of cold around her ankles fades.

She doesn’t dwell on it much.

 

 

Jemma is a prodigy. Naturally, her skills are in high demand. Long before she finishes her second dissertation, she is all but drowning in job offers.

“You should make the recruiters draw straws,” her mother suggests, studying the pile of information packets on the kitchen table with a kind of horrified fascination. “Or perhaps make them put on a talent show. That would be a laugh, don’t you think?”

“Oh, look,” her father says. “This one has a lab not an hour from Ashburton.” He extends the packet hopefully. “You could live at home!”

Her mother rolls her eyes. Jemma frowns at the packets.

(These offers aren’t right.)

“None of these are right,” she says, frustrated. “They’re all wrong.”

Her mother wraps an arm around her shoulders, concerned. “Wrong how, darling?”

Jemma can’t say. All she knows is what she’s said.

They’re not right.

 

 

A week later, she gets another offer.

She dislikes the woman who makes it—Anne Weaver—on sight, though she couldn’t say why.

(She’s one of _them_. The watchers.)

The offer, however, is terribly attractive. She is promised unlimited funding, first refusal on research projects, anything she could possibly want. She is told she’ll be doing good, protecting people—solving all the mysteries the world—the _universe_ —has to offer.

(This one is right.)

She feels a sense of rightness as she listens to Weaver’s spiel. This—this is what she was waiting for. All the other offers were wrong because they were not _this_ offer, _this_ job.

She knows she wants it, but she asks for time to consider the offer. It’s best, she’s learned, not to seem too eager.

“Of course,” Weaver says. “Take as much time as you need. There’s no expiry date on the offer.”

“Thank you,” Jemma says, and prepares to leave. Then she pauses, realizing suddenly that there’s one thing she doesn’t know. “I’m sorry, but—you never told me the name of the organization you represent.”

“Didn’t I?” Weaver asks. “My apologies. I represent the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division—or, as it’s fondly known, SHIELD.”

Jemma has an inexplicable, visceral reaction to the name. It turns her stomach. For a moment, she’s positive that she’s going to be physically ill.

But it only lasts a moment.

She doesn’t dwell on it.

 

 

When she is sixteen, she begins to have a new reoccurring nightmare. It joins being dragged as the nightmare she has most frequently—she has one or the other every three days, like clockwork.

In it, she is falling, and she is terrified.

She falls and falls through open air, too frightened even to scream. She’s aware that there are sounds escaping her—tiny, terrified squeaks or whimpers or something of the like—but she can’t hear them over the roar of the wind.

She knows she’s going to die—though, oddly, there is some concern as to whether she will die before or when she hits the ground—and she is so, so afraid.

Until someone catches her. Strong arms wrap around her. She stops falling. _They_ stop falling. He—and she knows it’s a man, a man that she trusts—holds her close for a long moment. Her fear begins to fade. Her heart resumes its normal speed.

Then he lets go.

No. No, he doesn’t let go. He shoves her away.

She falls again.

She falls forever—for an eternity—until she wakes.

She wakes with one hand fisted tightly in her sheets. It takes hours for her breathing to even out.

She doesn’t dwell on it much.

 

 

Of course she accepts SHIELD’s offer.

At the Academy, she makes a great deal of friends, which is lovely. The closest—the dearest—of those friends is Leopold Fitz.

They hate each other, at first. It’s a silly rivalry, born of the fact that they’re the two youngest cadets at SciTech, and for it are always being compared to one another. She hates him with a startling passion for all of three weeks; then, they’re paired together in a class, and suddenly she realizes how foolish she’s been.

Jemma’s never been one to believe in love at first sight, but she’s never felt such a strong, instant connection to anyone before.

Surely it must be love.

 

 

It’s not love.

They date for two months, and then their relationship fizzles out. It’s too comfortable, too easy—they’re simply too similar. They find themselves _forgetting_ that they’re in a relationship, focused on classwork and homework and exams, their free time taken up with independent projects—they work and brainstorm and spend every waking moment together, but there’s nothing romantic about it.

Every once in a while, one of them will remember that they’re supposed to be dating. They’ll exchange a kiss or two, make a sweet declaration—and promptly forget, once again, as the allure of science proves so much stronger than that of romance.

“Do you think we’re very bad at dating,” Fitz asks, contemplative. “Or just very bad at dating each other?”

Jemma considers this with some alarm. “I’m not sure. I’ve never dated anyone else.”

Dating prospects were rather slim at uni, of course, as she was the youngest of her class by more than a decade.

“No, neither have I,” Fitz says. He frowns at the wrench in his hand. “We could try dating other people?”

“Yes,” she agrees. “That’s probably for the best.”

And that’s that.

(It turns out that Jemma is, in fact, _excellent_ at dating when she’s not dating Fitz. She tries not to be too smug about it.)

 

 

When she is seventeen, a new nightmare joins falling and being dragged in the cycle.

In it, there is a man. He’s older—perhaps her father’s age—and in her head she refers to him as the smiling man. Not the most intimidating of monikers, perhaps, but it’s the only thing that seems to fit, considering the bright, happy grin he wears as he wraps his hands around Fitz’s throat and _squeezes_.

Fitz is smiling, too, in the nightmare—even as he chokes, his smile never wavers. But it isn’t aimed at the smiling man. No.

It’s aimed at Jemma.

She herself is standing off to the side, watching. Begging. Pleading with the smiling man not to kill Fitz—saying she’ll do whatever he wants, she’ll answer all his questions, just please, _please_ , don’t kill him. She wants desperately to intervene—to throw herself at the man, pull his hands away from Fitz’s neck, claw his eyes out, anything—but she can’t. There are hands on her, holding her back.

They’re not rough, the hands. There’s no pressure behind the grip at all—just hands, familiar somehow, resting on her arms. But they burn through her, filling her with such overwhelming hatred and rage that she’s immobilized.

Fitz always dies, in the nightmare.

His smile never fades.

It’s a disturbing dream, but she’s used to disturbing dreams.

She doesn’t dwell on it much.

 

 

SHIELD is everything she was ever promised. She and Fitz are brilliant together. They take the agency by storm.

Discovery. Invention. _Answers_.

It’s amazing.

But something inside of her craves more.

(This isn’t enough.)

She wants to go into the field.

 

 

Eventually, she wins Fitz over to the idea of field work. Shortly thereafter, they’re assigned to a mobile response team, led by one Agent Phil Coulson.

He’s…something.

She feels drawn to him, somehow. She can’t explain it. From the moment they meet, she feels a connection.

It’s not like Fitz, not like the instant bond they had. It’s something different. Older.

Older?

That doesn’t make any sense.

Coulson has a natural air of authority. There’s something very reassuring about it. That’s probably what she’s feeling.

She doesn’t dwell on it much.

 

 

The first time she sets foot in the Bus’ cabin, she very nearly faints.

She knows this place. She’s seen it before.

The windows to the briefing room. The chairs. The odd, inexplicable wall of glass in the middle of the lounge.

This is the place from her nightmare of the smiling man. This is where Fitz dies.

“Is something wrong, Agent Simmons?” Coulson asks, watching her with concern.

She opens her mouth to answer—to say _this is impossible_ , to say _I’ve dreamt this place_ , to say _perhaps we should reconsider SHIELD’s position on psychics_ —but something stops her. Something inside of her, something immense and dark and cold, says _no_.

(They’ll put you in a box and lock you away. They’ll study you. Fear you. You’ll never be free.)

“No,” she says, shaking away the odd spell. Her heart is racing, but she feels oddly calm. “I’m just excited.” She beams at him. “I can’t wait to begin!”

Coulson smiles back, a touch wryly. “Always nice to see some enthusiasm. Speaking of which, come on. I’ll introduce you to our pilot.”

 

 

She has no particular reaction to May, positive or negative.

Ward makes her uncomfortable. She’s not sure why. He’s somewhat standoffish, a bit grumpy, but he’s not threatening—not to Jemma, at least.

He’s very tall. Perhaps that’s it.

 

 

She distrusts Skye.

 

 

The Chitauri virus infects her. Her whole body hums.

Her head pounds. She’s close to erupting.

She refuses to kill her team. If Coulson won’t follow protocol, she’ll do it for him.

She throws herself from the Bus.

She falls and falls and falls. She is so afraid—too frightened to scream.

Ward catches her.

He does not let go. He does not shove her.

She loses consciousness. When she wakes, in the ocean, he’s still holding her close.

He makes her smile, makes her laugh, tells her that she’s incredibly brave.

She thinks she understands her discomfort, now.

 

 

She dreamt of falling for so long, but many people dream of falling. It’s probably just a coincidence.

She doesn’t dwell on it much.

 

 

The person behind the Centipede program is called the Clairvoyant.

“SHIELD has no recorded evidence of psychics,” Jemma says.

She doesn’t linger in the space outside the briefing room.

(They’ll put you in a box.)

 

 

John Garrett—Ward’s supervising officer, who is sent to retrieve Quinn and ends up remaining among them to help raid the Guest House—is the smiling man.

She thinks, _I should tell someone_.

Familiarity with a place she’s never seen before is one thing. The mind is imprecise. Perhaps the place in her nightmare was merely _similar_ to the Bus’ cabin, and once she saw the Bus, she incorporated its elements into the nightmare—filling in the blank, empty space that exists in all dreams.

But this is different. This is a man she’s never met before, but whose face she’s been dreaming since she was seventeen.

A man who kills Fitz.

She should say something. But what could she possibly say?

(They’ll _put you in a box_.)

She avoids him. She says nothing.

 

 

The GH-325 fills her with such a strange longing. She can’t explain it.

She needs to study it.

Coulson forbids it.

Jemma is not given to disobedience, but she needs answers.

She takes Skye’s blood to the Hub.

 

 

John Garrett is the smiling man. He is also the Clairvoyant.

Somehow, she’s not surprised at all.

 

 

The Hub is full of dead and dying agents, but Coulson has his priorities. He orders Jemma to see to Ward’s injuries before any others.

Ward is quiet as he follows her to the nearest medical supply closet. The infirmary, she’s been informed, is in shambles, so they make do with the closet. It has a table, which he obediently sits on once he’s removed his shirt.

“Are _you_ hurt?” he asks her, as she pulls on a pair of gloves. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked earlier.”

“I’m fine,” she says.

“Good,” he says, relieved. “That’s good.” He grimaces at his knees, shoulders stiff. “I’m sorry.”

“You said that already,” she reminds him. “And what have you to be sorry for, anyway?”

“My SO is a traitor,” he says. There’s so much emotion behind his tone, she has to look away for a moment. “He was about to hurt Fitz—force him into working for Centipede. He would’ve done the same to you, if he’d caught you. So I’m sorry.”

She picks up the antibiotic ointment she pulled from the shelf earlier, studies it thoughtfully.

John Garrett is the smiling man.

She thinks of falling, of being caught—of being shoved. She thinks of familiar hands resting lightly on her arms, filling her up with hate and rage. She thinks of instant, instinctive discomfort.

“You’re a traitor, too, aren’t you?” she asks, setting the ointment down.

Ward stills. “No. I’m not.” He gives her a weak smile. “I don’t blame you for thinking it. Trust me, I’m kicking myself—all these years, I should’ve—”

He stops. Sighs.

“You’re not buying it, are you?”

“No,” she says. “I’m not.”

The stiffness disappears from his posture. He leans back on his hands, studying her expression. He’s completely unconcerned by her knowledge of his true allegiance—but then, why wouldn’t he be? With his skills, he could snap her neck before she so much as opens her mouth to call for help.

She isn’t going to call for help, anyway. Perhaps he knows that.

“How’d you know?” he asks.

She pauses, waiting for the little voice inside to speak up—for the reminder that if she says anything, she’ll be put in a box and studied.

It never comes.

She frowns to herself, confused, but in a way, it makes sense. It was always SHIELD she feared putting her in a box, and Ward isn’t SHIELD.

So she supposes there’s no reason not to tell him. She steps closer to him, takes one of his hands and lifts it in both of hers. His eyebrows go up, but he makes no move to stop her.

“Your hands,” she says, running her thumbs along his knuckles. They’re bruised and caked with dried blood.

She wonders how much of it is his.

“My hands?” he echoes slowly. “I don’t get it.”

“I have a lot of nightmares,” she says. “Several of them reoccurring.”

His brow furrows. “Okay.”

“Garrett is in one of them,” she says. “And so are you.” She frowns down at his hand. “You hold me back while he kills Fitz.”

“You guessed that I’m HYDRA because of a dream?” he asks, a touch derisively.

She turns his hand over, examining his palm. “I’ve been having it since I was seventeen.”

Ward tenses. His other hand comes up, grasps her chin, and forces her to meet his eyes. She remains still, placid, as he searches her face for a long moment. She should be frightened, but she’s not.

(He won’t put you in a box.)

He won’t put her in a box. She’s certain of it.

“You’re psychic?” he asks eventually, grip gentling.

“I don’t think so,” she says. “I don’t have visions or anything of the sort. Just…a few reoccurring dreams, one of which has come true.”

“Huh.” He searches her face for a moment more, then releases her chin. “You’re not angry.”

It’s a fairly abrupt change of subject, but she knows what he means. She’s not angry that he’s HYDRA.

“No,” she agrees.

She’s not angry about HYDRA at all.

She’s enjoyed her work with SHIELD, but that’s been because of the work, not because of SHIELD. She’s not particularly attached to the organization itself.

She supposes some part of her never got past that initial, visceral reaction to the name. SHIELD is where she’s meant to be, but it’s also not. She’s trapped in it, caught.

…Trapped?

“You know,” Ward says. “A scientist as brilliant as you are—there’s a place for you in Centipede. In HYDRA, if you want it.” He reaches out again, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. (It’s been a stressful few hours. Her ponytail is beginning to fall apart.) “If you’re one of us, Garrett won’t kill Fitz.”

“Is that an offer?” she asks, somewhat unsettled.

“Just something to think about,” he says. His hand falls away from her face. “Now, I don’t mean to rush you, but I’ve got some SHIELD agents to kill. So if we could move this along…?”

“Oh,” she says. “Yes, of course.”

She almost forgot that she brought him here to treat his injuries. They’re mostly superficial, aside from his ribs—about which she can do nothing—so it doesn’t take long.

“Thanks, Simmons,” he says as he pulls his shirt back on. “And, hey.” He catches her arm, gives her a long look. “The HYDRA thing—it’s our secret, right?”

“I won’t tell anyone,” she promises.

If she told them, they’d want to know how she knew. And—(they’ll put you in a box)—she can’t tell them that. She can’t let them know about her dreams. About anything.

SHIELD cannot be trusted.

 

 

The night before they flee the Hub, she has a new nightmare.

In it, she is locked in a clear plastic box. People stand around, staring.

She bangs on the glass and begs to be released, but they just stand there—watching. Listening to her beg.

Coulson. Weaver. (She’s always disliked Weaver.) Skye. (She’s always distrusted Skye.) Fitz. May. Others—scientists. Some she’s worked with before, some she hasn’t.

(We told you. They put you in a box. We knew they would.)

She knew they would put her in a box. She knew it.

(You should join HYDRA. HYDRA won’t put you in a box.)

She should join HYDRA. HYDRA won’t put her in a box.

(When you’re HYDRA, you can release Us.)

The _Iliad_. She wonders if HYDRA’s taken it yet.

She wakes with conviction.

 

 

Ward comes back. She patches him up again. His story about the Fridge’s fall rings false.

She says nothing.

He lingers in the lab after the others have left. He stands very close, and she’s surprised to realize that she no longer feels discomfort at his presence.

(We like this one. You like this one.)

She likes him.

“You didn’t tell them,” he says, voice barely a murmur.

“I said I wouldn’t,” she reminds him.

He smiles.

He has a very nice smile.

“You did,” he agrees. “I’m sorry for doubting you.”

“That’s all right.”

He’s so close, and he still hasn’t put his shirt on. He’s a very attractive man—she’s always known it, but now that she’s not uncomfortable, he’s much more appealing.

He looks better with stubble than he did clean-shaven.

“Have you thought about what I said?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says.

“And?” he prompts. He moves even closer, hands resting on the counter on either side of her, effectively pinning her in place with his body. “Will you be joining up?”

She thinks he might be trying to seduce her. She thinks it might be working.

But it’s not necessary.

“Yes,” she says. “On one condition.”

“What condition would that be?”

“There’s a ship,” she says. “An aircraft carrier called _The Iliad_. It has something I need.”

He studies her, curious. “Does it?”

“Yes.” She nods once, firmly. “There are a number of highly classified projects and weapons being stored there. HYDRA is welcome to all of them.”

“Except what you need,” he guesses.

“What I need isn’t a project or a weapon,” she corrects. “It will be of no interest to HYDRA at all.”

He looks skeptical. He looks gorgeous.

He’s so close.

Temptation wins out over the need to negotiate.

She kisses him. He kisses back, one arm tight around her waist, one hand tangled in her hair.

It’s like in her dream—he burns her up from the inside out. But it’s better, because there’s no rage, no hate.

She wants him with a startling passion.

(This isn’t the time.)

This isn’t the time. But surely a few moments more won’t hurt.

(This _isn’t the_ —oh, fine.)

Excellent.

 

 

They leave Providence together.

Skye is unconscious in the Cage. Ward—Grant—has a plan. She’ll unlock the hard drive for him willingly if she thinks Jemma will suffer for her refusal.

The Bus is on autopilot.

“By the way,” Grant says, later. “You never said what you want from that carrier.”

They’re lying in his bed, trying to catch their breath. His hand is carding absently through her hair. She’s still burning up.

It’s lovely.

“Didn’t I?” she asks.

“No,” he says. “You didn’t.”

“Ah,” she sighs. “Well, it’s not much, really.”

“What is it?”

She smiles against his shoulder. “A rock.”


End file.
